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Five Bulls (Part II)
The day after the meeting, Taros walked the entire hill, as well as the surrounding areas, surveying the land and trying to form a plan to defeat the bandits. The only area he did not tour was the manor at the top of the hill, where even now, men armed with bows and swords could be seen moving about the yard and balconies. Carmine was with him, as one of the captains of Silver Summit’s militia. Orrinth, Venirus and Septis, the other three ronin-turned-captains, were gathering all willing, able-bodied men over the age of sixteen to begin the training that would hopefully turn them into soldiers. All training was done indoors, reducing the risk of begin seen by the enemy. “Did the blacksmith say how many weapons and armor he would be able to make within the week?” Taros asked. “Not much, I’m afraid,” Carmine answered. “Polk said if he had a little more time, he–” “No,” Taros cut in. “A week is the most we can spare. Any more, and more outlaws will come in from the surrounding areas to join Castor. And the longer we wait, the more likely he is to realize that we’re raising an army of our own. Not to mention the fortifications he will be able to construct up there.” Taros pointed to the manor. “It’s already an uphill battle, and the more time he has to prepare for an incursion, the less likely we are to succeed.” Carmine rubbed at his stubble, a shade darker than the previous night. He wore a katana now, back from his days as a Gold Eagle Ko-Sai, before he was wrongfully accused of taking bribes from prisoners and dismissed from duty. “If that’s the case, I would recommend telling Polk to focus on making armor. We may not have a lot of swords in Silver Summit, but this was once wild land that needed taming: there are plenty of bows, arrows and axes.” “You’re right. Would you let him know?” “Yes. I’m going to go check on the others, and I’ll stop by on my way there.” “Thank you,” Taros said as Carmine turned and left. He had spent most of the day as Taros’ guide, and no doubt wanted to do something a little more interesting. Once Taros managed to get to sleep the night before, he had the dream again. This time, however, the four men whose identities had been shrouded in mystery were now unveiled. The hand that grasped Ceilia’s shoulder was Orrinth, of course. The other three were the other captains that he had assigned: Carmine, Septis, and Venirus. The more he thought about it, the more he felt that he knew who they were the moment the meeting began. It seemed that something was guiding the people of Silver Summit. Was it some sort of deity? One of the patrons, perhaps? Fate? Whoever or whatever it was, it chose Taros to lead. It was disconcerting, because he had absolutely no idea how he was supposed to stop Castor. The bandits had all of the advantages, save numbers, and it would take more than manpower to flush the outlaws out of the region. Silver Summit would bleed heavily before this was over. Taros returned to The Pasture as the sun was setting. Ceilia threw herself into his arms as soon as he opened the door. She looked pale, frightened. Taros hugged her tightly. “What happened?” “Four men came from the manor,” she stammered. “They were looking for my father. They gave me this.” She handed him a rolled up piece of parchment, tied with a thin string. He unrolled it and sat at one of the tables, lit with a dim candle. To all who reside in Silver Summit: '' '' '' ''From this day forth, Ferdinand Castor will rule as king of this region. All who live within the boundaries of Silver Summit must swear fealty within seven days, and will be required to pay taxes to the king on a bi-annual basis. Those who do not swear fealty will be turned out of the region or killed. '' “So at least one of Castor’s lot can spell,” Taros said, grimly. “Who knew?” Ceilia planted both palms on the table, across from Taros. “This is a travesty! He can’t–” “Nothing has changed,” Taros assured her. “We were facing death already, and the one-week timeline suits me just fine.” He stood and rolled up the parchment. Ceilia folded her arms across her chest. “You really think we can beat him?” ''I’m not sure, he thought. But he could not admit that, not to her. “Yes. We will.” He handed her back the parchment. “Let your father read this when he returns. I’m going to get some sleep. We have a long week ahead of us.” Ceilia tucked the paper into her robes, and once again embraced Taros. This time, however, she kissed him deeply, and he was acutely aware of her body as it pressed into his own. “Perhaps you would sleep better if it were not alone?” she asked, coyly. Taros kissed her back. “Before this is all over, I may have to fight Castor to the death.” He smiled. “I’m not sure I could handle fighting your father to the death, too.” With one last kiss, he wished her goodnight and went to his room. His mind was ablaze as he tried to devise a way to defeat Castor, as well as fight off the desire to slip into Ceilia’s room, and it was not until the early hours of the morning that he was able to finally fall asleep. *** Taros walked down the now familiar path, one that he had walked hundreds of times in the realm of sleep, with the men and women of Silver Summit bowing to him on either side. It was the main street, he could now tell, the street that circled the hill. '' '' '' ''At the end of the path, Ceilia, Orrinth, Carmine, Septis and Venirus all waited for him. The dreams were beginning to make sense, now: he was to be a pillar of strength for the four ronin, and Ceilia was to be his own pillar. '' '' '' ''This time, the rumbling of the ground was so strong that his body was shaking, the incomprehensible whispers so loud that he had to fight the urge to cover his ears. '' '' '' ''Still, he spoke. “You have brought me here to lead! Tell me how to free these people, and I shall do it!” '' '' '' ''And, for the first time, he was answered. “YOU HAVE EVERYTHING THAT YOU NEED,” bellowed a voice from behind the silver mist, the source of the whispers. '' '' '' ''It was so overwhelming, not in volume but in ''power, that Taros fell to one knee. “Who are you?” he asked. His throat was suddenly dry and cracked, and it was all he could do to keep his head looking forward into the mist instead of falling prostrate like the rest of his body upon the trembling ground. '' '' '' “I WAS ALIVE LONG BEFORE YOUR KIND WAS BORN UPON THIS REALM. I WAS GIVEN FORM BY TOLDIR; BLOOD BY GAFNEL; AND SPIRIT BY ARVINE. ORIVIEN GAVE ME LIFE, LYSSANDRA SUBSTANCE. I HAVE LIVED BENEATH THE SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF SAVOS, ALIR AND DUNNEN. THE CHILDREN OF COLTHAX, ROTHAX, ZORASTIA AND MARAGONI HAVE DANCED UPON MY FACE.” '' '' '' ''Ceilia and the other four stepped to the sides of the path, leaving it open down the middle. As in every dream, the mist raced forward, though this time he did not wake up. '' '' '' ''The haze began to shift and swirl. Taros tried to stand, but the power of the being kept him down. '' '' '' ''A figure began to coalesce as the mist condensed. First, there formed four hooves, extending upwards into legs, one of which stamped at the ground. '' '' '' ''A bovine torso the size of a small house formed next, and finally, a head with two long, dangerously sharp horns. '' '' '' ''“I AM THE LAND ON WHICH YOU TREAD, THE AIR IN WHICH YOU BREATHE. I AM THE BULL, AND YOU ARE MY EMISSARY.” '' '' '' ''“Why me?” Taros choked out. He stared into the being’s eyes, a glossy silver, which stared back with an intensity that nearly overwhelmed him. '' '' '' ''“BECAUSE YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN BE. A LAND IS MORE THAN SIMPLY SOIL AND WATER. A LAND IS THE CULMINATION OF NATURE AND THE SPIRITS OF THOSE WHO DWELL WITHIN. ONLY YOU CAN RESTORE THIS LAND’S HEART, POISONED BY THOSE WHO WOULD ENSLAVE IT. LISTEN AND REMEMBER: '' '' '' ''“THE BULL DOES NOT DODGE. OTHERS FLEE. '' '' '' ''“THE BULL DOES NOT SLOW. ITS FOES ARE TRAMPLED UNDERNEATH. '' '' '' ''“THE BULL DOES NOT FEAR. THE BULL ''IS FEARED.” '' '' '' “But what if I cannot save them?” Taros pleaded. “You have to tell me how!” '' '' '' ''The Silver Bull snorted, creating twin clouds of dirt. “YOU WILL LEAD THEM, OR YOU SHALL ALL PERISH.” '' '' '' ''The ground’s trembling grew so intense that it pitched him forward, back into the realm of the wakened. '' *** Taros was screaming and clutching his ears as he woke up the next day, and Orrinth and Ceilia, still in their nightclothes, burst into his room. “What is it?” Ceilia shouted as they entered. Taros wiped his face brow with his hand. He was sweating profusely. “I know,” he replied. “Ye know what, son?” Orrinth asked. “I know what needs to be done,” Taros said. His face set into grim determination. “I know how to beat Castor.” *** “You all have your orders, so get to it,” Taros said. He stood on the hill, a few feet up from the town hall. Orrinth, Carmine, Septis and Venirus stood with him. “You realize that this is crazy, right?” Septis asked. Venirus laughed. “It’s absolutely mad. I love it.” Taros nodded. “Possibly, but I believe that it’s the only chance we have.” He looked at Venirus and Septis. “You two get back to training the others. How many volunteers do we have now?” “A little over 150,” Septis replied. Taros sighed. “Not as many as I was hoping for, but it will do, I think.” Carmine turned and began walking away. “I’ll get as many people working on the construction right away. We don’t have enough time to pull wood from the forest, so we’re going to have to strip some homes bare. I know the younger boys and older men who can’t fight are eager to do something to help. Polk could only use a few of them, anyway. Building barricades shouldn’t be too difficult, just time consuming.” “Good. Orrinth and I will take care of the third part of the plan, and I will stop in periodically to assist the rest of you and check progress.” Orrinth grunted. “Ye know the plan will fall apart if it rains the last half of the week, right? “It won’t rain.” “How do ye know?” “I just do. Shall we?” It was going to be a long week. Taros and Orrinth reached Doren’s ranch at noon. Talarius sat on the gate, drinking from his water skin while the bulls grazed behind him. He waved when he saw the two ronin approaching. “We need to talk to your father,” Taros said as they reached him. The boy was wide-eyed. “Did you change your mind? Do I get to fight?” Orrinth snorted at that. Taros smiled, too. “No, but I have something more important for the two of you.” *** The seven days passed, and Castor and his outlaws made no moves against the people of Silver Summit. He was content to sit in his new home, gorging himself on food and drink and all the other vices that come with the delusion of power. Wagons of supplies were seen moving up the roads that led to the manor, but under Taros’ orders they were left unmolested. They would be of little use to them if everything went according to plan. Taros stood in the Pasture, securing the freshly-made breastplate to his chest. He and Venirus were given full armor, greaves, gauntlets and a sash to hold their swords. Orrinth, Carmine and Septis had retained their armor from the clans they used to serve, so the armor meant for them was fitted for other members of the militia. Ceilia watched him as he dressed. “I pity the outlaw who comes across you wearing all of that,” she said. Taros slid his katana into his sash. “If we’re lucky, I might not have to fight a single one.” Ceilia floated forward and wrapped her arms around him. Today, she was wearing a simple brown tunic, more suited for travel. If the militia should lose, she was to flee the territory with the children, who were now gathered in a farm at the base of the hill. She kissed him lightly on the lips. “For good luck.” “My luck has been nothing but since I met you.” He hugged her close, for a minute or an hour he could not say. Finally, he released her. “It’s time.” The pair left The Pasture, Ceilia walking briskly across the street and down the hill, towards the children. Orrinth was waiting for him in the middle of the road, clad in old, rusty iron armor. “Are ye ready, son?” Taros nodded. “I hope you don’t think I’m leaving you out of the action.” Orrinth smiled. “Don’t worry, I understand my part.” He rolled his neck with a scatter of satisfying pops. “To be honest, I’m a little old to be doing much fighting.” Taros nodded and put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Your actions just might take more bandits’ heads than the rest of us combined.” Orrinth smiled, his one good eye twinkling. “Only one way to find out.” The two parted ways, Orrinth heading east, Taros west. Carmine was waiting for him halfway up the hill, on the opposite side of the town hall. Eighty men in piecemeal armor stood behind him, carrying swords, axes and bows. Though one week ago they were simply farmers and merchants, today they looked hungry for battle. “Any activity from the manor?” Taros asked. Carmine shook his head. “They see us, no doubt about that, but they’re waiting. I guess that’s the point of having the uphill advantage.” Taros nodded. He circled around the small squadron of men until he stood directly between them and Castor’s base. He looked them over, catching the eyes of many men, and a few boys just barely old enough to serve. He spoke loudly. “You all know why you’re here,” he began. “A plague has come to Silver Summit, in the shape of men who prey upon the weak.” He began to pace as he talked, walking the width of the unit. “You have received only the most basic of training, but it will have to be enough.” He stopped walking and turned to face them. “Today, Silver Summit retains its independence, or it falls and withers.” He shouted, “Are we going to let that happen?” The question was followed by eighty cries of “No!” and a sea of raised fists. Briefly, Taros was reminded of his men in the Crystal Water army, clad in their purples and blacks. “Today, we restore this land’s heart!” Carmine joined him at the head of the unit as it exploded into shouts of zealous approval. “If by some miracle Castor didn’t know we were here before, he knows now.” Taros smiled. “Then we had better get moving.” The unit marched up the hill towards the manor, which loomed against the late afternoon sky like a wooden castle, its windows dimly reflecting the sun like a dozen staring eyes. Taros picked this time of day to march, as the sun would be in the west, neither behind his men nor the manor. They marched amateurishly; their training had been spent mostly on combat and cohesion. However, they managed to stay together, one large block of men moving at a quick, deliberate pace. The milita stopped just outside the gates, beyond which was a hundred feet of grass to the manor. Taros kept his back to his men and shouted loud enough to be heard by the men inside, “If you see an archer in the windows, shoot him down. Otherwise, hold.” It was deathly quiet, and he could hear the sound of twenty men in the rear of the unit handling their longbows. Carmine had been right: there were plenty of bows in Silver Summit, and no shortage of people who knew how to use them. There was a great deal of movement behind the windows of the manor. They waited perhaps a full two minutes, which was an eternity for ready fighters, before the manor’s balcony doors slammed outwards. Castor, flanked by two armored men on either side, walked to the edge and peered down upon Taros, Carmine, and their small army. The hefty bandit spat over the balcony, his chins flapping as he talked. “Have you all come to swear fealty? This is a grand way of doing it. I’m impressed.” Taros locked eyes with him. “We’re here to offer you one final chance,” he said. “You and your men can leave Silver Summit, and you will live. We all feel that it’s more than generous, considering all the murders you are already guilty of.” From behind the army, the barely audible sound of flint on steel could be heard by the militia, but not by Castor. “Generous, aye,” Castor said as he scratched at his bearded face. “However, I have grown to like this house, and I don’t feel like moving.” He and his men shared a brief chuckle. “I think we’re going to stay. However, since I’m feeling so generous today, I’ll offer ''you one last chance.” He crossed his arms. “Kneel before King Castor of Silver Summit, and you will all keep your heads.” Even from a story below, Taros could see the man’s murderous smile. “Because we all know who will win between killers and farmers.” Taros raised his fist in the air, and for a brief second fear stole over Castor’s face. Only now did he notice the small plumes of smoke rising up from behind the militia. “Archers,” Taros yelled, “burn it down!” Half a dozen small fires burned in the grass at the back of the group, where the archers now dipped their oil-covered arrows and ignited them. Castor’s eyes grew wide as twenty flaming arrows were pointed at him. He and his men scrambled inside before they were let loose, but barely. It is true that those who control the high ground are more often than not victorious. It is also true that dry wooden houses burn quickly. Windows of the manor were smashed outwards as Castor’s own archers began to fire at the Militia. Several of Taros’ men died, catching arrows in the head or neck, but most arrows bounced off of their small shields and armor. Pretty soon, more flaming arrows were directed at those broken windows, and the enemy archers were either killed or fled. The mansion began to burn. “The water and sand barrels are ready to go, right?” Taros said to Carmine. Both had their swords drawn, and Carmine had even cut an arrow out of the air seconds before. “Yes, if we need to, we’ll be ready to fight the fire once the bandits are out. It’s a good thing they kept these tall brick walls around the place, though: it’s unlikely that the fire will make it past them.” “Good,” Taros said. He spun around to address his men. They did not look so eager for battle as they did earlier, not with a few of their friends and neighbors lying dead in the grass. “Archers, put out your fires and everyone get ready to move. The real battle begins now!” As the fire burned taller and brighter, Castor and his men never emerged from the front of the manor. Just as Taros knew they would not. The militia, led by Taros and Carmine, marched around the east wall of the estate. The shouts of outlaws could be heard of the now-roaring fire. They were using the back entrance, just as Taros had hoped. When the militia turned the corner of the mansion, they were greeted with the battle cry of just under a hundred bloodthirsty outlaws, all dressed in black and brown leather armor. Their swords were drawn, and they charged, weapons raised. The militia returned the cry and charged to meet them. What resulted was blood-drenched chaos. As Taros had feared, even with training, the farmers and ranchers of Silver Summit were not quite a match for the blooded bandits of Castor’s small regime. The battle only lasted a few minutes, but in that short time many lives were lost. Taros cut down the first bandit that came at him as he drew his sword, severing his head from his neck and drenching himself in blood. A second, horizontal strike intercepted a long sword that was meant for his own head. He kneed the snarling bandit in the gut, and when he fell on his knees and grabbed his stomach, Taros brought the hilt of his sword down on the back of his head and he moved no more. Everywhere, bandits and militia fell, though more militia than bandits. A man in his thirties caught a bandit’s sword on the head of his axe, but was disemboweled when the outlaw produced a dagger from his sleeve slid it under his armor, raking it across the stomach and spilling his guts into the grass. Elsewhere, one of the largest men Taros had ever seen, a man name Saimon who stood at six and a half feet tall, simply picked one of the more heavily armored bandits up over his head and drove him head-first into the ground. There was a loud snap as the man’s neck broke on impact, and three nearby bandits suddenly decided to do battle elsewhere. But still, it was becoming more and more apparent that the militia would lose the battle if it dragged on. “They’re taking their sweet time, aren’t they?” Carmine shouted over the fighting. As if to answer, a high-pitched horn pierced the chaos of battle. The men of the militia shouted in response, their battle lust renewed. Out of the corner of his eye, Taros saw a boy of no more than seventeen bring an axe down one-handedly, severing a bandit’s arm from his torso. Screams came from behind the bandits, and to their horror, the other half of the militia, another seventy armed men, marched towards them. The sun was directly behind their backs, making their approach a little harder to see. Septis and Venirus stood at the front, swords raised high and the glaring sun beginning to set behind them, tinting the sky with streaks of yellow and orange “For Silver Summit!” Septis roared. The men echoed him. Amidst the chaos, Taros saw Castor, surrounded on all sides by his men. His face was a painting of rage, red and snarling. “Fall back!” he yelled to his men. “If they want a fight, we’ll give it to them in their own bloody town!” The outlaws began to retreat down the hill towards the main street. Unbeknownst to them, Taros smiled. “You all know the plan!” Taros yelled. “Follow them!” The men cheered, and took pursuit of the outlaws. The heat of battle does a lot of things to a person. It boosts adrenaline. It can instill rage or fear into a person, or in some cases, even joy. It can increase awareness in the immediate area, giving a person sharpened battle-senses, while decreasing it elsewhere. So, it never occurred to Castor or his men to wonder why there was a newly-made wooden gate left open at the entrance to the main street. They simply dashed through it, ready to turn and meet the enemy head on, rather than fighting on three sides or being surrounded, as remaining on the hill would have done. Castor began barking orders as soon as the eighty or so remaining bandits were standing in the main street. “Anybody with a bow is to get into a building and start picking off these blasted farmers one by one! Pay special attention to the ronin, the men with the katanas!” He held his own katana up in the air for all to see. All at once, Castor and his men felt a slow rumbling in the main street. Nervously, men with bows began to move to buildings and turn door handles. “Locked!” said one of the archers. “Mine, too!” yelled another. “Then break them down, you idiots!” Castor yelled. “They’re almost…” he trailed off before he could finish, looking back through the gate and seeing the militia standing outside, about a hundred men, unmoving. Four of them ran forward, two on each side, and pushed the large wooden gates, about twenty feet tall, closed. A dull thud sounded from the other side as a wooden beam fell into place, locking it shut. “We can’t!” yelled the first archer. He had taken an axe to the door, only to find more wood behind it. “It’s barricaded!” The rumbling of the ground grew more intense. The buildings themselves began to shake, the glass in the windows chattering like a freezing man’s teeth. “Mine too!” yelled another bandit. “The alleys are barricaded, too!” screamed yet another. Castor spun around, looking for an ambush. “Just what the blazes is going on?” Still, the shaking in the soil grew stronger, and now the sound of hooves and the grunts of cattle could be heard in the distance. Men screamed and began to run, pushing past their so-called-king in a panic. “Stampede!” someone called out, and everything went mad. A herd of fifty bulls charged down the main street, with Orrinth, Doren, Talarius and three others leading them from behind on horseback. The color drained from Castor’s face as he saw the river of death rushing towards him. He ran to the nearest door, the front door of The Pasture, one that had already been cut into by an archer, and began hammering at the barricade behind it with his sword and boot. It gave way a second before the bulls reached him, and he threw himself inside, cutting himself in a dozen places on the shattered wood but avoiding the doom that most of his men would face. Most of the bandits ran, but it was a futile gesture. The doors and alleys of this half of the main street were all boarded and barricaded, and while they could be broken and destroyed, it would take time. The bulls did not intend to give them time. The first bandit at the back of the group screamed as a horn pierced through his back just beneath the ribs, killing him almost instantly. His body bobbed up and down a few times before it slid off the horn and was lost in the sea of hooves. Men who stumbled were among the first to die as the bulls crashed down upon them, crushing spines and opening skulls like melons. A few bandits were able to dash up the stairs of some of the raised buildings and dodge the onslaught, but they were the lucky few. The rest were trampled and gored, their blood mixing with the dirt to paint the street a grotesque brown. Taros stood a ways up the hill from the militia with the other three ronin, watching the bulls do their work. His eyes narrowed when he saw Castor dive into The Pasture. The men of the militia did not cheer. They were locked in a silence brought on by the queer fascination with the screams of men and bull alike. It was chilling. “By the Patrons,” Carmine whispered. “It’s working.” He closed his eyes and looked away from the scene. “And it’s horrible.” “They were outlaws,” Septis said. “Murderers and rapists and thieves. They came her uninvited and without welcome, and this is the will of the land.” He did not quite realize just how true that statement was. They were quiet with that, and even Venirus was without a smile, for once. Taros began to run down the hill. “The herd will make one more pass before Orrinth leads them back to Doren’s ranch. Once they’re gone, bring the men in and take care of any stragglers.” “What are you going to do?” Venirus asked. Taros looked back and shouted, “I’m going to deal with Castor.” By the time Taros climbed one of the alley barricades and made it to The Pasture’s front door, the shaking had been reduced to a low rumble. He dived through, not daring to leave himself open while taking his time, rolled and came to his feet, sword drawn. Castor, who had been sitting down and catching his breath, jumped to his feet and drew his own sword. His eyes narrowed in recognition. “You,” he said. “I would tell you to surrender, Castor, but we both know that your time in Silver Summit ends with either a sword or the rope.” The burly bandit had the frenzied eyes of a cornered badger. “You killed my men.” He laughed, a bit hysterically. “A bunch of farmers and a handful of swordsmen killed all of my men.” He spat blood on the floor from where his lip had been cut in his retreat. “But, you won’t kill me, you bastard. Even if I die, I’ll make sure you die first!” The two men lunged at each other, their steel ringing out once again in the main room of The Pasture. Castor was stronger than Taros, but Taros was faster. Strike after strike rained down on the bandit, and it was all he could do to block them with his own katana. Castor was pushed back, but Taros only managed the smallest of cuts on the man. The bandit’s foot hooked around the leg of a chair, and he threw it at Taros’ legs. He had to sidestep to dodge it, but it gave Castor the second he needed to retreat up the stairs. Taros gave chase, and ducked just as he reached the top, Castor’s blade narrowly missing his head and cutting into the wall. “Why won’t you die?” Castor screamed as he pulled his sword free of the wall. He ducked into the nearest door, Ceilia’s bedroom and Taros followed him through. Castor was climbing out the window onto the first-story roof. Taros lunged with his sword forward, but the fat man rolled to the side just as the tip pierced the air where he had just been. Taros dived out onto the roof, which slanted downward for about five feet, where it dropped off to the street. The clay tile of the roof rattled when he struck it, and he rolled in the opposite direction that Castor did, putting five feet between them. The tile began to rattle, and Taros knew that the herd of bulls was coming for its second pass. Castor was clutching a window shutter for balance as he got to his feet. Taros carefully picked himself up and held his sword out in front of him. “End of the line,” he said to Castor. “Aye, so it is. But if I’m going to go, I’m going to make sure that you share the same fate as my men and I.” Castor lunged faster than Taros would have given him credit for. He brought his sword above his head, raring for a strike. Taros brought his blade up to block, but at the last second, the bandit let go of his sword and grabbed him with both hands. The two of them easily lost balance on the clay tiling, spun, and fell from the roof into the street below. Taros rolled away from Castor, his arm searing in pain. It was probably broken. He got to his feet, and stumbled backwards before regaining his balance. Castor also regained his feet, and began to take steps backward. “Here they come,” he said. “The devils of your own design. May they crush every bone in your body!” Taros looked behind him and could see the front of the heard rushing towards him. His ankle was sprained, maybe broken, and it was all he could to remain standing. Trying to escape would do no good. '' '' The Bull does not dodge. Others flee. Castor took another few steps back. “What? Nothing to say in our final moments?” He started to laugh, the squeal of a man who looks death in the face and is driven mad by it. The ground was shaking as badly as it had in his dreams. His body hurt. '' '' The Bull does not slow. Its foes are trampled underneath. '' Castor dropped his sword, and all of the blood drained from his face as the bulls drew closer. “You’re going to die!” he screamed. “Aren’t you afraid?” Taros, whose head had been hanging down, looked up at Castor for one last time. “The Bull does not fear, Castor. The Bull ''is feared. You are no Bull, and you do not belong here.” The bandit fell back onto his rear-end as he spoke, no longer staring at the bulls but at Taros, as though he were death incarnate. The bulls, cramped as they were in the main street of Silver Summit, began to part just behind Taros, moving around him like a stone jetting up out of a shallow creek. They flowed by him without touching him and converged back together in front of him. Their sharp horns and powerful legs were the last thing Castor saw before he was trampled to death. As the last of the bulls charged past Taros, Orrinth came to a halt next to him. “Doren, take the others and get those animals back into their pen!” he yelled. He leapt from his horse, still agile for an older man, and put his hands on Taros’ shoulders. “What in the blazes was that? I’ve never seen anything like it! They just… flowed around you!” Taros, still shaken, simply replied, “It was the will of the land.” *** The remaining bandits were flushed out of the region easily enough, now that they had no leader. One large funeral was held for those who died serving in the militia, fifty in total, and they were buried in individual graves in a clearing that met the tree line of the outlying forest. Taros attended, his arm wrapped and splinted, as did everyone else in Silver Summit. The bodies of the bandits were stripped and buried in a mass grave at the outskirts of the region. A week later, the damage caused by the fire, the stampede, and the bandits was still being repaired, but everyone agreed that it was a great deal better than letting Castor have his way. Taros was sipping tea inside The Pasture, whose door still had not been repaired (Orrinth sent the men who came to fix it on their way, telling them there are more important things to repair than a single door), with Ceilia sitting next to him. It was very quiet inside: not many people had time to drink during the day, lately. “I’m thinking about building my own house,” Taros said, suddenly. Ceilia raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” “I think if I’m going to be staying in Silver Summit, I will need my own home.” He looked at her and smiled. “That sounds lovely. I’m glad to hear that you’re staying.” Taros, warrior that he was, began to blush. “I fear it may get lonely, after a while, though.” Ceilia nodded. “Living alone can be lonesome.” He took a deep breath, set his cup down and grasped her hands. “Marry me, Ceilia, and we can fight off lonesomeness together.” “I was wondering when you were going to ask.” Her eyes sparkled, and she pulled him forward into a kiss, one they would both remember for the rest of their lives. Later that night, drunk on love but sober on tea, Taros made his way to the town meeting hall, where Carmine, Septis, Orrinth and Venirus were waiting for him. “I take it you’ve heard the talk about town?” Venirus asked. His smile had returned. “Yes,” Taros replied. “What do the rest of you think?” Orrinth sighed. “This won’t be the last time our homes are threatened, methinks. Maybe it’s for the best.” The others muttered agreement, though none of them looked entirely pleased. “Well, let’s get this over with,” Carmine said. The meeting was over within an hour. The people of Silver Summit elected the five ronin to lead them from that day forth, as the first five masters of a new clan of Ko-Sai. They would continue the training of the militia, as well as any others that would take up a sword for his family and friends. This new clan would go on to defend Silver Summit for generations, up until the dawn of the Crystal Water Empire. At the end of the inaugural meeting, someone asked for the clan’s sigil. Taros smiled at that, and suddenly everyone in the room knew the answer. They were the Silver Bulls.